


Got Your Back

by sadlittlepeachesandplums



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Feelings, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 15:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13321227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlittlepeachesandplums/pseuds/sadlittlepeachesandplums
Summary: Linking up with Quentin’s emotions did spur Eliot on to try harder, though. The only way he’d been able to get through that particular week was with a heavy —er than normal—dose of narcotics. And Quentin got through every day of it with nothing more than pessimsm and sad, puppy dog pouts directed at nobody in particular.So, maybe Eliot spent six months perfecting a spell that allowed him to be there for Quentin whenever he experienced any sort of negative emotions. So what? Eliot’s a perfectionist.And he also kind of, really, cares about Quentin.





	Got Your Back

If Margo knew, she’d give him that  _look_  and then walk out of the room like she’s not worried about his sanity, despite the worried flick of her wrists that clue him in to the truth. So, she probably does not, and she’s definitely worried about him. But, Eliot is a masochist, and he can’t help that he feels like he needs to be there for Quentin when he has his episodes. And it’s not like it’s an invasion of Quentin’s privacy or anything. It’s just a small little spell that tracks Quentins emotions and alerts Eliot anytime his motions dramatically peak.

(Though, it had been awkward when Quentin and Alice were still dating and Eliot ran into the room thinking Quentin was having a panic attack. He was so resolutely  _not_  having a panic attack, that Eliot almost felt like he deserved the shoe thrown at his head as he closed the door behind him. Though that has more to do with him pausing and saying, “Nice form,” than him rushing into the room.)

It’s needless to say he’s had to tweak the spell. Even go so far as to  _study,_ to find a way to have the spell only localize on Quentin’s darker emotions.There were … failures, along the way. Like Eliot accidentally linking his and Quentins emotions up to synchronize so anything either of them felt, the other felt. Obviously, he blamed that on Todd, and temporarily turned him into a toad to avoid the truth getting out. By the time he turned back, nobody but Eliot remembered—well. Nobody but Eliot, Quentin and the whole of the Brakebills teaching staff that had to break the spell.

Linking up with Quentin’s emotions did spur Eliot on to try harder, though. The only way he’d been able to get through that particular week was with a heavy —er than normal—dose of narcotics. And Quentin got through every day of it with nothing more than pessimsm and sad, puppy dog pouts directed at nobody in particular.

So, maybe Eliot spent six months perfecting a spell that allowed him to be there for Quentin whenever he experienced any sort of negative emotions. So what? Eliot’s a perfectionist.

And he also kind of, really, cares about Quentin.

Which is why it comes as a shock—literally—when something courses through him stronger than anything Quentin’s ever felt before. He’s sitting on the living room couch, reading through a nondescript magazine, trying to pass the time by while everyone else actually studies for finals, when an electric burst of energy rushes through him. It’s like the shivers; the ones that people often describe as ‘someone walking over your future gravesite’ only it’s painful and practically paralyzes him for a moment.

When it passes, he takes no time to run out of the cottage and across campus. Honestly, if it were anybody else, he probably wouldn’t even care. But it’s Quentin.

So he runs.

And, as everyone with even half a brain can attest to, Eliot does  _not_  run. Not from monsters, not from ghosts, not to save someone about to jump off a cliff. He’s a smoker and an alcoholic. He doesn’t run for anyone.

Except Quentin.

He’d run to the ends of the Earth and back if it meant protecting  _him._

Not that he’d ever admit it.

If anyone asks, later, when Quentin’s calm and Eliot’s pleasantly buzzed, he’ll blame it on a doppelgänger or something even less believable.

The pulsing shivers get stronger the closer to Quentin he gets. It shouldn’t surprise Eliot that Quentin’s in the library, being an actual nerd, but somehow it does. Maybe it’s the fact that this is supposed to be Quentin’s safe space. Maybe it’s that Alice is standing over him, shocked and not doing anything but staring.

A rush of rage burns beneath the electricity shooting through his veins but he shoves that down, and pushes past her to kneel down next to Quentin.

He’s sitting on the floor, eyes wide as he gasps for breath. His left hand is grabbing desperately at his shirt, like he’s trying to push past it and into his chest to grab at something, or stop something. Tears stream down his cheeks as his eyes frantically search Eliot’s, harsh, wheezing breaths puffing out between them.

Eliot grabs Quentins hands and leans in, forehead pressing just against the top of Quentin’s scalp. He whispers something, just for the two of them into Quentin’s hair, before looking over his shoulder, “What the fuck are you staring at? Go make yourself useful and get some water, Alice.” Alice is unresponsive for a moment, but then she nods shakily and darts out of their little alcove in the library, and Eliot turns his attention back on Quentin. He pulls one hand away, and starts building a spell between them. Not quite a sedative, but something that’ll ease Quentin’s heartbeat. And Eliot’s, for that matter.

Because as calm as he can pretend to be, he can’t trick himself into believing that he’s not terrified out of his fucking mind. Can’t tell his own heart to stop pounding so angrily in his chest that it ricochets around the room and almost blocks out Quentin’s breathing.

The spell does the trick. Quentin’s facing is losing some of the pinkness, but his breath is still shallow and fast. Eliot reaches up to guide Quentins attention to Eliot’s eyes, with a gentle hand to his jaw. He raises his eyebrows, and mimics taking a deep breath. “With me, Q,” He says, voice soft and guiding just like the books told him to. “Breathe with me.”

It takes a minute, but Quentin starts taking exaggerated, slow breathes, as he follows Eliot’s movements with precision.

Eliot watches as Quentin comes down from the panic attack, and when he feels it’s safe to, he pulls him in for a hug and holds him to him as Quentin’s arms hesitantly come up to wrap around his waist. “I hate seeing you like this,” He says after a few long beats,  Quentins hot breath burning into the nape of his neck.

Quentin nods against the skin there, pretends he’s not wiping his snot and tears off on the shoulder of Eliot’s favorite vest, and says, “Then why do you always come?” His breath is hoarse, and it’s like ragged puppet strings pull at Eliot’s heart with each syllable.

Eliot quiet for a long moment, before he swallows, thick and careful, “You know why.”

Nodding again, Quentin pulls himself closer, and it’s all Eliot can do not to run across campus to punch Dean Fogg in the face for taking away Quentin’s medicine.

“Thank you, El.”

Eliot breathes him with a shrug, “Always, Q.”

It’s a lot of effort into only a few moments of action, but jesus christ if the small, relieved smile Quentin gives him when they’re finally able to get up isn’t worth it, Eliot doesn’t know what is.


End file.
